


the two of us might really make it through

by procrastinatingbookworm



Series: Hello, I'm good for nothing - will you love me just the same? [4]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Bugs in love, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Fluff, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stream of Consciousness, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Trauma, Worldbuilding, bugs!! in!! love!!, except it's a tiny mossy alcove in a post-apocalyptic underground society, implied/mentioned suicidal thoughts, tiso waxes poetic (and also gay)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26907676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: Quirrel and Tiso in Greenpath, in an alcove, in pain, in love.
Relationships: Quirrel & Tiso (Hollow Knight), Quirrel/Tiso (Hollow Knight)
Series: Hello, I'm good for nothing - will you love me just the same? [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957039
Comments: 10
Kudos: 118





	the two of us might really make it through

Tiso knows that Quirrel’s fast. It’s not exactly something he can hide, no matter how languid and deliberate he usually is. He startles too easily, reacts too fast. Warrior instincts live deeper than memory.

Despite knowing, it’s different to see him in action. Greenpath is more threat than peace, even with the comfortable temperature and the easy supply of food and water. The lush greenery hides constant threats.

Everywhere can be an enemy—every patch of grass, every pool. Every plant on the wall or floor. None especially threatening, but numerous enough to leave Tiso constantly on edge.

At least Quirrel is with him. Quirrel, and his nail, and his reflexive violence. Quirrel and his instincts, Quirrel with his free hand in Tiso’s and something like light in his eyes.

Quirrel, who doesn’t even seem to  _ think _ before he strikes. He just throws himself toward the threat with a shout and cuts it down.

“You know, if you ever fight something with a brain, you probably shouldn’t call your attacks,” Tiso jokes, as Quirrel crouches down to wipe his blade in the grass.

Quirrel glances up at him. There’s a fleck of orange on his mask, and Tiso takes an unsteady step forward to brush it away with his fingertips.

“I don’t plan to,” Quirrel murmurs, tilting his face into Tiso’s hand, as though he can feel his touch through the mask.

Tiso sways, just slightly, and Quirrel moves to his side, wrapping his free arm around him, the other still holding tight to his nail.

They go onward. Sometimes Quirrel doesn’t even let go of Tiso to strike—just cries out and  _ twitches _ , and something else falls dead at their feet.

They don’t travel like the pale squib—Tiso especially, but Quirrel doesn’t seem to mind being held to a slow pace—who races across rooms as though they’re late to somewhere important. 

Quirrel and Tiso have nowhere to be. There’s a peace to that.

There’s no day and no night in Hallownest, but there’s exhaustion, nerve-deep and heavy. They still need to sleep, even without the darkness to invite it.

Tiso never stops feeling tired, and no rest seems to lift it from his shoulders, so he lets Quirrel decide when they stop. He’s the one doing the work, after all.

Quirrel stops, finally, letting go of Tiso to poke his head into a hole in the wall that turns out to be an alcove just big enough for a couple of bugs to sleep.

Apparently, they’re not the first ones to think so. 

Quirrel yelps suddenly, and Tiso twitches for his shield before remembering that moving his arm hurts like acid from his fingertips to his shoulder. 

By the time the fog of pain clears, Quirrel is dragging a pair of corpses out of the alcove.

“Infected?” Tiso asks.

“Just dead,” Quirrel replies, hauling the bodies across the room and dropping them unceremoniously in acid. “And deader now.”

Tiso laughs. It’s a bright laugh, and doesn’t sound like him at all.

After a moment, Quirrel laughs too. He picks his way back across the room and sets his pack and nail down before ducking into the alcove. “Cozy in here.”

Tiso’s shield looks like it belongs beside Quirrel’s nail. Tiso sets it there every time they stop, leaning against the nail as though they’re two parts of a whole.

“Come on,” Quirrel urges, one hand emerging from the alcove to reach for Tiso. “I’m not getting any younger.”

Tiso crawls into the alcove. It’s smaller than most of the spaces they’ve shared, but it’s not like they haven’t slept nearly on top of one another before.

Tiso settles, mindful of his arm, on Quirrel’s chest, head on his shoulder and good arm draped over him.

Quirrel makes a soft noise—a pleased little hum in the back of his throat. He settles his hand on Tiso’s head, fingers just brushing the base of his antennae.

Tiso has to remind himself how to breathe. He curls his fingers into Quirrel’s hood. “Q, don’t tease me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Quirrel says, in a tone that means he knows  _ exactly _ what he’s doing. “Are they sensitive?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Tiso whines, turning his face into Quirrel’s neck.

“Sorry,” Quirrel repeats, more sincerely. His hand slides away from Tiso’s antennae, settling on the back of Tiso’s head. “Sleep well, my friend.”

Tiso hums in reply, before he realizes he doesn’t know the Wyrmtongue word for what he wants to say, if there even is one. “Sleep well,” he echoes.

Tiso dreams of his colony.

He dreams of the flood, of the fires and the warring, of being lost on the way to lands of promise. 

He dreams of the bodies, piling high.

He dreams of the stories the colony elders would tell of the Mad Kingdom; that those who braved the land beyond the Howling Cliffs and survived it would emerge scrubbed clean of selfhood, of all memory but their name.

He dreams of the Colosseum. Always, the Colosseum.

He dreams of pain, and wakes in pain.

His arm, his  _ one good arm _ , is searing, the nerves crying out from elbow to fingertips, and—

—someone’s calling his name.

“Tiso,” Quirrel is saying. “Tiso, my friend, wake up now. Wake up.  _ Tiso. _ ”

“Q?” Tiso asks, groggy with sleep and pain. “Why does my arm hurt?”

“You were thrashing in your sleep and struck the wall.”

Tiso blinks up at him, when the heat of pain suddenly fades. He glances at his own arm, surprised, and Quirrel is holding his hand, massaging at his wrist with his thumb.

“Don’t leave me,” Tiso says, surprising himself with the intensity of it. He sits up, nearly hitting his head against the roof of the alcove, cramming himself even further into Quirrel’s space, until there’s barely a breath of space between them.

“Tiso,” Quirrel says, like he’s actually  _ scolding _ Tiso for caring.

Anger burns hot in Tiso’s chest. He’s not accustomed to anger. Stubbornness, violence, frustration, yes. But not this  _ rage _ , incandescent against his exhaustion.

“No,” he says, lacing his fingers with Quirrel’s and squeezing tight. “No, we’re not doing this halfway. You’re not—there’s more than this place, Q. And even if we stay here, it’s… we can still…”

Tiso trails off when Quirrel touches his cheek.

“Tiso,” Quirrel says again, softer this time. “I’ll do my best. I can’t promise you more than that. I’ve lived a long time.”

“Then it shouldn’t be so hard the second go-around,” Tiso manages, voice twisted in his throat. “Even with me to contend with.”

Finally, Quirrel laughs, lovely and bright, and presses his forehead to Tiso’s. “I’m sure we’ll manage just fine.”

They’re still holding hands. Quirrel’s hand is still on Tiso’s face, cradling his jaw.

It seems only right to kiss him.

It seems only right when he kisses back.

Right, like the nail and shield outside.

A matched set.


End file.
